


Raise Your Glass (and your gun)

by Revenant



Series: Icarus 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, mentions of past non-con, original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On January 24, 2011 at 8:26 in the evening, two men walk through the doors of O'Malley's pub, in midtown Minneapolis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise Your Glass (and your gun)

Jesse can’t remember how they discovered O’Malley’s, but he knows it wasn’t too long after they first arrived in Minneapolis, which means the first drink he and Aaron ever shared in that pub was likely an illegal one. Not that they were strangers to criminal behavior, by sixteen underage drinking was just about the most benign thing he and Aaron had ever done.

It’s not that the little pub is out of the way exactly, though it is nestled in the southwest corner of Phillip’s neighborhood, not exactly the safest area of Minneapolis, it’s not too far away from downtown. When they first arrived in the city, he and Aaron would take long ambling walks, discovering every secret nook and shadowed alley that their new town had to offer, and Jesse figures it’s probably the gun shop that had initially attracted their attention to that end of the street. Without asking Aaron, though, Jesse can’t be certain, and there’s no way he’s asking Aaron because the bastard would likely have a snide comment or four to make about the state of Jesse’s manhood. He can’t help it; around this time of year he just starts feeling sentimental.

“We should call him,” Jesse says.

Aaron rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if Jesse’s been saying that all day, which just isn’t true. He may have wondered if they should call before they had parted ways the night before, but that was only because it was so late, or early really, that it would have been sort of a prank call; they could have all laughed about it. Anyway, it’s tradition, and Jesse sees no sense breaking with it just because Aaron’s in a mood.

Aaron’s always in a mood this time of year, and if Jesse didn’t know better, he’d guess that Aaron’s moodiness is caused by the same thing that makes Jesse sentimental. “Want me to get you a tissue, Jessica?” Aaron says.

Jesse trounces on his friend’s foot, hard. “Fuck you, I’m bad ass,” he retorts, as Aaron hops exaggeratedly. It’s immature ribbing, the type they only entertain anymore when it’s just the two of them; they have reputations to maintain, after all. No one would take them seriously if they knew that when Jesse consumes too much alcohol and crashes on his friend’s couch, he sometimes wakes up with braids in his hair. _“It’s your own fault for keeping it so long”_ is always Aaron’s excuse. They’re criminals, and they’re murderers, and they lead one of the toughest gangs in Minneapolis, and sometimes they braid each other’s hair and indulge in frivolous prank wars.

The battered green pub sign creaks as it’s caught-up in a breeze, and Aaron pulls a hand from out of his coat pocket and jerks the door open. Entering O’Malley’s is like transitioning into another world. Down a dark, cramped staircase that groans in protest with every step, steep enough that Jesse sometimes climbs his way out when he leaves (but only if there has been tequila involved), and then through the little archway into the pub, and suddenly it’s polished dark mahogany, and exposed brick and flat screen television’s, so classy looking and well kept that Jesse sometimes feels under-dressed, like he should be wearing a pinstriped zoot suit or something.

It’s been the same guy behind the bar every night for as long as Jesse and Aaron have been frequenting the place. Gregory George has grey hair and a round belly that he works to maintain; he always wears a pressed white button down and a gold band on his ring finger, which he says is to keep the ladies at bay, but that Jesse knows is really there because the man has loved the wife he lost fifteen years ago just as much as the day he first met her. He’s like the grandfather that Jesse never knew (he likes to think his grandfather would have plied him with alcohol as much as Gregory does), and he’s the one who put them in touch with Fletcher Prince, who vouched for them and got both Jesse and Aaron their first gigs with organized crime.

“Hey, George,” Aaron greets as he slides onto a stool at the bar, grabbing at the beer that George is already setting before them.

“Boys,” George says.

“Special night tonight, George,” Jesse says. “We’re drinking to our friend’s health, so keep ‘em coming.” George nods and shuffles off to the other end of the bar where two suits are sipping whiskey, their heads tilted up to the flat screen, absorbed in the basketball game.

“I think we should serenade him,” Jesse says. “It’s the next best thing to a gift.”

“If the bastard wanted a gift from us he should have told us where he is,” Aaron mutters. “And I’m not serenading anyone.”

Jesse shifts the glass of scotch closer to his friend and waggles his eyebrows. “Drink enough of those and I bet I could get ya to sing ‘My Heart Will Go On’.” Aaron snorts but tips his glass up, gestures George back over to top them both off.

“I’m giving you the good stuff,” George scolds, “if you two are just going to knock it back like a couple of sailors, I’m changing up your liquor.” They mutter apologies as George shuffles away again, both of them knowing the old man doesn’t quite mean it.

“To Dean Winchester,” Aaron says. “I hope the sonofabitch is enjoying his birthday, wherever the hell he is.”

“Amen,” Jesse says, he tips his scotch up and catches George’s sidelong glare, so after a sip he makes a grab for the beer instead. “Cantankerous old coot; the only bartender I know who doesn’t want you drinking his liquor.”

It’s been a while since either of them has seen Dean; too long. Maybe it’s strange that he and Aaron miss the guy as much as they do, but he doesn’t think on it overmuch; it doesn’t really matter either way. From the start they got good at using what little time they had together, whenever Dean and his family drove through Blue Earth, and there were phone calls and emails and text messages to bridge the gaps in between. There’s enough history shared between them now that Jesse figures it doesn’t matter what happens anymore, they’ll always be close, they’ll always share a secret language that the rest of the world won’t ever be able to decipher.

“I’m gonna go hoist the pennant,” Jesse says.

“What?”

“I’m taking a piss,” Jesse elaborates.

Aaron rolls his eyes, says, “Dude, I don’t know what a pennant has to do with that.”

“Whatever.” Beyond the bar is another room filled with tables and booths. Jesse sees a woman sitting, her hair falling loose and long around her shoulders, her blouse cut just low enough to tease. She’s pretty, but she’s with a guy whose nervously fidgeting with his wine glass, Jesse thinks that the guy’s so nervous it’s either their first date or he’s trying to propose; if it’s the latter, Jesse feels sorry for them, O’Malley’s is a great place but he doesn’t know how high it scores on the romance scale.

Tucked away in the far corner is a man hunched over a plate of fish and chips’, eating like it’s going out of fashion. His movements are sharp staccato beats against the plate, the cutlery tapping and clinking, making a strange kind of music. His hair is short and greying at the temples, his features are sharp. Somewhere in the back of his head, Jesse thinks the man resembles someone he maybe knew once.

One moment Jesse is en route to the bathroom and the next he realizes he’s standing stone still in the middle of the dining space. He doesn’t know why he stopped walking, but his ears are ringing with the echoing sounds of cutlery striking against dish, and it takes a second before he realizes he’s stopped breathing. Consciously, Jesse exhales and then breathes in, glances around to see if his odd behavior has caught any notice and his eyes fall again on the man and his dinner, Jesse hears a voice echoing at him through the years, _“I don’t give a fuck if you’re hungry or not, you’ll eat because I’m telling you to eat. Now get the fuck down on your knees and finish your goddamned lunch! Here’s a piece of bread, can’t have a good lunch without a nice piece of bread. Do you all see how well they follow my orders?”_

Jesse doesn’t have any delusions about himself; he’s not a good guy. He does drugs and he drinks too much; he’s killed people and he’s scuffed some up bad enough that he figures they must have wished he’d killed them. He runs a gang, and even if he and Aaron run the Mad Dogs to be more like the old time mob, with a code and violence and hits being mostly directed at other gangs and criminals encroaching on their turf, it doesn’t make what they’re doing okay, or even legal. A criminal with standards is still a criminal.

Aaron calls him a hot head, and Jesse thinks that’s pretty fair. He figures he’s put up with enough shit growing up that he’s not going to tolerate any more; not now that he can do something about it. Maybe that means he’s quick to use his fists, but he’s never killed someone for looking at him wrong; maybe he shot one or two, but they didn’t die from it. He doesn’t take murder lightly, even when it comes to that.

Still, as he stands in the marble-tiled bathroom at O’Malley’s, Jesse splashes cold water on his face and looks in the mirror. He thinks, _I’m going to kill someone tonight,_ and he smiles, feels like a weight has been pulled off his shoulders, like Atlas setting down the sky for a moment; the sensation is exhilarating, he almost laughs.

“I got us a plate of that cheddar and ale dip thing,” Aaron says when Jesse comes back to the bar. “And a basket of wings, because if you’re planning on drinking as much as I think you are, I want some insurance that I’m not gonna have to drag your ass up the stairs and into a cab without some effort on your part.” Aaron’s brows nit together and he bumps his shoulder against Jesse’s. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Just...” Jesse rubs a hand over his chin and then starts again, “Take a look behind me, in the far corner of the other room. Take a good look.” He holds himself perfectly still as Aaron frowns at him, and then leans to the side to do as asked. “Am I going crazy?”

“Jesus fuck,” Aaron says, which is confirmation enough. _I’m going to kill a man tonight,_ he thinks again.

They don’t need to talk. They don’t need to sit there and explain what needs to be done or why, they both just know. Whatever memories are zinging through Aaron’s head, he doesn’t say, but he reaches for his scotch and tips the glass all the way back, thumps the glass down onto the bar. They slide off their stools in unison.

They don’t ask for an invitation, don’t stop and wait to be acknowledged, just grab a chair each and settle themselves calm as you please at the table in the far back of the restaurant. “Hey,” Jesse greets, more than a little lost at how to continue. He’d imagined this encounter about a hundred times a day when he’d been a kid. Now it’s here, and his words are lodged in his throat.

“Who the hell asked you to sit down?” the man says. His face may have aged, his hair may have changed color, but his eyes and the sharp slash of his mouth, and the timber of his voice are all the same. Seventeen years later, and Jesse finds himself sitting across the table from Edward Dowell, like they’re old friends.

Aaron tips his head to the side, quirks his lips up a little. “And here I thought you might be happy to see us.”

Jesse watches Dowell’s grey-blue eyes narrow as he looks them over, he asks, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Give it a second,” Jesse says. “I’m sure it will come to you.”

Aaron’s grin is surprising, he leans back in his chair a little, like he’s perfectly at ease and says, “Y’know, it’s okay. I can see how you might not remember us. We were probably just a passing thing for you and your friends before the next shipment came in.” Jesse wants to wince but his mind is suddenly filled up with an image from a cartoon he saw once, cows on a conveyor belt being pulled into the slaughterhouse. Aaron glances over at him and then looks back to Dowell. “It’s a little harder for us to forget though, I mean, you gave us so much more to remember.”

Jesse lurches forward in his seat, gratified when Dowell jerks a little, startled at the sudden movement. “It’s Jesse Deacon and Aaron Conyers, you son of a bitch.”

Dowell tips his head to the side as he looks at them. “Oh yeah,” he says, picks up a slice of fish on his fork and chews on it, still watching them. “How have you boys been?”

“We’re not boys now,” Jesse growls.

Dowell huffs at them. “No you’re not.” He dunks another piece of fish into his tartar sauce, clink clink as his knife and fork bump against his plate. He handles his cutlery like he’s at a fancy dinner party. “So what do you want?”

Aaron drops his gun onto the table; just sets it there, cocked and loaded. He smiles like he’s at the same dinner party that Dowell’s at, and Jesse wonders how he’s so calm, because all Jesse can think about is lunging across the table and clawing into the other man’s skin, picking it off piece by piece.

Dowell’s eyes are rooted to the gun for a moment, his knife and fork stilled in his hands, but then he glances up at Aaron and smirks, sets the cutlery down and sits back. He rubs his hands across his thighs like he wiping them off. “You were scared little pricks, you know? Both of you,” he says, his smirk stretching across his face. “All of you.”

When Jesse thought about this moment, he used to imagine Dowell on the ground, on his knees just like he made them sit for so long. He’d imagine the man would beg and plead, snivel and grovel for forgiveness and Jesse would lean down and tell him ‘no’ just before he killed him. What’s the price of innocence? Jesse wonders. What’s the punishment for laying curled in bed listening to your friend scream in the room beside yours and having the first thought through your head be: ‘thank god it’s not me tonight’. They’re all tied up in it, and they’re not getting free. There’s no healing from something like that, there’s no balm that can smooth over the hurts; the damage is done. There’s no forgiveness, there’s no justice, there’s just an end.

“I tried,” Dowell is saying. “I tried to make you tough, make you strong…”

“Well here I had it all wrong,” Aaron says, leans forward across the table, into Dowell’s space like he isn’t scared to be there. “All this time I was thinking you just liked fucking and beating on little boys.”

Dowell’s glare is cold and hard, he snorts at Aaron, splits his glare between them. “You’re going to burn in hell,” he says, like he’s an authority on that. “The both of ya’s.”

“You first,” Jesse says, and he fires his gun from where he’s been holding it beneath the table. Takes an inordinate amount of satisfaction at the shocked widening of the man's eyes, the pained expression on Dowell’s face. Jesse rises from his chair at the same moment Aaron does, both of them stretching their arms forward across the table, guns aimed. He doesn’t think about the other people in the bar, doesn’t hear anything at all, not even the sounds their bullets make as they fire.

Jesse feels numb, doesn’t register how Dowell’s body jerks with each hit; he’s lost in memory, in a rush of old voices, old conversations, old sounds. When they stop shooting, the first thing Jesse really notices is that there’s blood in the tartar sauce and he finds himself imagining what that would taste like, turns away because it makes his stomach twist and coil and he wonders if he might be sick right there.

The further he gets from the smell of that fish dinner, though, the better he feels. “Sorry, George,” Jesse murmurs, drops money onto the bar.

“You boys okay?” George asks.

“Yeah,” Jesse says, then huffs and smiles. “We’re fine.”

 _One down,_ Jesse thinks as he walks to the stairs, tucking his gun back into his jacket. _Three to go._

\--------  
End.


End file.
